In the spirit of tbh - this Easter, I've decided to play a little game of tbh. To be honest, this is me, processing, coping, trying to get through another Christian holiday in a Muslim country. And it's not just that. Really, it's hardly that at all. It's more me trying to get through another holiday without our people, our traditions, our way of doing holidays. I'm reading a book right now about how to bring these three kids up in a culture that isn't there own. Yes, another parenting book. In the book they quote Tevye from Fiddler on the Roof and it just keeps haunting me:
"Because of our traditions, we've kept our balance for many, many years. Here in Anatevka, we have traditions for everything: how to sleep, how to eat... how to work... how to wear clothes. For instance, we always keep our heads covered, and always wear a little prayer shawl that shows our constant devotion to God. You may ask, "How did this tradition get started?" I'll tell you! I don't know. But it's a tradition... and because of our traditions... Every one of us knows who he is and what God expects him to do."
Because of our traditions I know that we dye eggs with a table full of loved ones. We laugh. We fight. We dip. We dye. We outdo each other; always besting whatever egg was last carefully dried and placed in the green carton holding place. Why? Because that's the tradition. It sometimes ends in laughter. More often in tears. But it's the way it's supposed to be. We eat the cracked eggs, sometimes cracking them on purpose to desperately fuel our protein deprived bodies on this sugar saturated holiday. It's tradition. We rise early Sunday morning. Too early. The baskets have been delivered. The eggs have been hidden. And tired little feet scurry through the house to see if anyone else is awake yet. Maybe to snag a coveted Easter basket trinket. Maybe to do a little reconnaissance mission for hidden eggs. Tactics. Not only do you have to dye the best egg, but you're nobody if you don't find the most eggs.
Cups of coffee are chugged, orange rolls bake away, and there's suddenly a mad rush (you'd think, because we've been up since 4am, that'd give us plenty of time - no.) to get everyone bathed and ready for church. Church. One of two services of the year that everyone attends. Seemingly, every.one. We bribe our way through church with promises of hidden eggs, more candy, and time with friends and family. After church we come home, starting to slip into an early afternoon sugar coma, revived by a sliver of neon pink tucked beneath the branch of a tree. Eggs. There are eggs to be had! Barreling out of the car, all three bound into the yard squawking like a passel of baby chicks all lurching forward for the same neon pink egg. Soon, they are joined by another car load of kids. And suddenly there are six fighting for the same neon pink egg. Again: Laughter. Tears. But mostly laughter. And memories.
Easter. The one I just described, well that's a myriad of Easter's past. It's not one particular Easter. It's all of them. It's tradition. It's the box of Easter goodness that my mom sent to us. She sent it because she knows me. She knows that Easter without the trappings, well that's no Easter at all. Easter without my mom's ridiculous puffy cotton ball looking chicks (that she manages to find year after year) displayed throughout the house, isn't Easter. Eater without an egg dyeing party? Not Easter. I guess what she didn't realize, is that the only thing she could have put in that box to make it feel like Easter was herself.
To be honest, I love every little bit about living and working abroad. No. I'm not being honest. I don't love every little bit about it. I don't like holidays over here. I just don't. They're lonely. They're hard. They aren't what they're supposed to be. I find myself trying to fast forward through them or distract myself from them or just pretend they aren't here. But the reality is, I have three little people waiting for me and for Steve to help create their image of what a holiday looks like. What will they write in their journals about what Easter looked like growing up? Will they remember egg hunts with their friends? Will they remember hurried showers and uncomfortable church clothes as we shove them out the front door? Will they remember that we always, always have orange rolls for breakfast and ham for dinner.
Always.
Except when we don't.
Except when we live in a country that forbids pork products and didn't manage to get a shipment of Pillsbury orange rolls on their last barge. Will they remember that we bought them a new Easter outfit every year? Will they remember that they always wore those darn outfits for the total of about 4 hours once a year? Will they remember what the holidays feel like? What the laughter sounds like? Will they remember the smells of the holidays in Oregon?
To be honest, we are living the adventure of a lifetime over here. We had Rome. We have a pool practically in our back yard. I don't remember what it feels like to be cold. Our kids are seeing the world and learning a second language. We did have a table full of people dyeing eggs with us. Our Doha friends are what keep us going. We laugh a lot. We love it here.
To be honest, there is something to be said for tradition. There is something to be said for living in a world among your people. Your people who dye eggs. Who hunt eggs. Who spend irrational amounts of money on 4 hour wardrobes. Your people who march faithfully and dutifully through those church doors.
To be honest, the unraveling of tradition hurts and no number of trips to Rome or Dubai or the backyard pool can cover that seeping wound.
To be honest, it's 8:36pm over here. That's 3 hours and 24 minutes until I can put one more holiday in a dark plastic bag, toss it in the trunk, and drop it off at the nearest dump. And then we can get back to actively being in our laughing place.
With that... Happy Easter! Haha! No, truly... it has been a happy Easter. Just not in the traditional sense. To all of you back home, celebrating your traditional Easters - have a colorful, laughter filled day!
